


When the Bell is rung

by Hinotori



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Dutch likes his dick sucked, M/M, Mentioned Molly/Dutch, Micah is eager but doesn't know it, Micah's internalized homophobia, Vanderbell, dubcon blowjob, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-02-10 00:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18649189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinotori/pseuds/Hinotori
Summary: Dutch has a job for Micah. It's not quite what Micah expects.





	1. On your knees

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this

Clemens Point is too fucking humid and full of mosquitoes and Micah has no idea why all these idiots like it so much. They all seem right at home with the bugs and the mud and the stale smell from the lake’s shore, and he hates it more and more with each passing second. This is their fifth day here and it’s just the same unforgiving heat that clings to all of them mercilessly and makes the camp stink even worse than usual. The breeze from Flat Iron is of little help, as it just brings on the putrid stench of fish and algae and all that good stuff.

 

Being on guard duty is a good distraction from all of it and while he usually hates having to just stand around staring at nothing for hours on end, he’s glad for the alone-time it’s going to give him now. They’ve been loud since they arrived here, Dutch being all excited about those two families in Rhodes he thinks he’s got wrapped around his little finger already, and the noise has been unbearable.

 

He gets out of his seat when he sees Javier approaching, back from his own shift. The eagerness with which he swings his legs off the table might have been noticeable, but he’s beyond caring.

 

“Micah,” Dutch’s voice is piercing and he almost winces when he hears it. Micah wishes this won’t take too long, but knows he shouldn’t get his hopes up. “Come with me for a minute.” It’s not a suggestion. Nothing ever is with their leader, he’s noticed.

 

“Making the greaser work double shifts, Dutch?”

 

He’s not graced with a response from either of them and maybe it’s better that way. He spares Javier a not-really-apologetic shrug and follows after the other man.

 

“What’s this about, boss? You got a job for me?” He asks when they’ve finally made their way around Dutch’s tent and are out of sight.

 

“As a matter of fact, I do.” This is music to Micah’s ears; he’d jump at any opportunity to get out of camp, and he hasn’t had the chance to do so in too long. Dutch stops abruptly and Micah almost bumps into him, staggering backwards and glaring at the other’s back. There’s a moment of silence as the other man turns to face him and their eyes meet, and suddenly Micah’s not sure he wants to know what this job is. “Get down on your knees, Micah.”

 

“…’xcuse me?”

 

“You’re excused. Now get down. On your knees.” He almost takes a step back, almost reaches out and grabs Dutch by the shirt, almost yells at him to fuck off. But he manages to keep his cool and lets out  nervous chuckle, raises his hands defensively instead of throwing a punch.

 

“What’s this all about, boss?”

 

“Don’t be coy with me, boy. You’ve been trying to make this happen for months. So here, it’s happening.”  It’s technically true - he’s definitely been kissing every inch of Dutch’s ass he could and could not get to since he’d fallen in with the gang. But that’s his role, that’s what he does, and it’s not supposed to work, not like _this._ Dutch has a woman and a reputation and an ego to match, him being even remotely tempted by the one-sided half-flirting-half-bootlicking is unthinkable.

 

And yet here they are.

 

Dropping to his knees is not really a choice he makes consciously. It happens when Dutch raises an impatient eyebrow at him, when a challenge flashes in his eyes and his neck tenses ever so slightly with agitation at being defied. Micah’s not sure what the consequences of saying ‘no’ would be and if there would be any at all, but he’s spent way too long standing these people to risk being cut loose and losing his reward over pride of all things.

 

Dutch seems to relax when he gets his way, shoulders dropping ever so slightly and chin tilting down to get a better look at the man before him. Micah manages to hold his gaze, even if he’d rather be looking anywhere else. The smug, self-satisfied little curl that touches the edge of Dutch’s lips makes him almost get up and leave without a single fuck given about the money promised to him for this bastard’s head. But he could really use that money, and could _really_ use seeing Dutch van der Linde finally locked in a cell as far away from him as that money can take him.

 

So he grits his teeth, forces a smile.

 

“So? Here I am, on my knees, as requested.” He spreads his arms to put an emphasis on himself and his position. There’s no verbal response, just Dutch reaching down with one hand to undo the button of his pants and take his cock out.

 

Fucking Hell.

 

He’s somehow managed to believe this isn’t what’s going on until now, and the realisation makes his blood run cold, and then hot again. Micah’s never been _attracted_ to men, never been intimate with one (at least not while sober enough to remember it, but he doesn’t like even considering being desperate enough to go for another man), and he’s never been on his knees to pleasure a woman, either. The only cock that’s ever been on his mind is his own, and he’s not ashamed to admit he lacks the imagination to have ever pictured it in his own mouth. So this is. New.

 

Dutch, meanwhile, is semi-hard already, holding himself in hand, ringed fingers slowly stroking up and down his length.

 

“Well?” He says, calmly, casually, as if Micah isn’t reevaluating how much money and pride and his life are actually  worth to him this very second.

 

They’re worth this much, he decides, and reaches out uncertainly.

 

It feels strange, holding another man in his hand. The angle’s all wrong, like buttoning someone else’s shirt, and his wrist already hurts after just a few strokes. Dutch seems to be aware of his incompetence and is holding his own cock steady with one hand, the other resting on his hip. His cock is fully hard now, and Micah can tell even at this awkward angle that it’s thicker than his own, the tips of his fingers barely meeting when wrapped around it. He feels the back of his neck burning but blames it on the sun and the heat and keeps going.

 

A few moments pass like this, until Dutch thrusts forward encouragingly. “Get your mouth on it, we ain’t got all day.” Right. They’re in camp. They’re in camp and Javier’s waiting for them. What’s worse, Morgan is napping one tent over, could wake up and come asking for something or show off he’s got money to put in the box.

 

Micah hates this, hates himself, hates the cold mud dampening his pant legs, and hates Dutch. He holds back a growl, looks up in an attempt to convey his displeasure despite everything, but ends up just looking back at the task at hand instead, Dutch’s unfazed gaze weighing him down with its hunger and expectation. So he clears his throat, shuffles a bit closer on his knees, and opens his mouth.

 

Dutch guides his cock between Micah’s lips and exhales harshly through his nostrils, one hand touching the side of Micah’s face to keep him from pulling away. He pushes inside, slowly, and Micah feels his jaw go slack, unsure of what to do to make this any easier for himself.

 

The taste isn’t awful, but he can suddenly sympathise with the way he’s seen some inexperienced whores’ nose scrunched up when they ran their tongues over him. He tries to remember what the more experienced ones have done for him, how they used their mouth and tongue and fingers to get him to come all over their face. It’s a thought that will make this better for both of them, he guesses - he doesn’t need to think about Dutch and he has surely picked something up from all those women-

 

“Mind your damn teeth.”

 

Oh. Well.

 

He doesn’t know _how_ to mind his teeth, isn’t sure he would even if he did, but there’s no way to convey this information besides glaring up at the other man, and he doesn’t want to send the wrong message. So he hums in apology instead and Dutch _hisses_ above him _and fuck,_ the sound goes straight to the pit of his stomach. He can feel his own cock hardening and he feels sick because of it, but he can’t let up now, so he tries to ignore it.

 

Micah puts his hands on Dutch’s thighs and starts awkwardly bobbing his head, gagging a little whenever he slips up and lets the other’s cock get in too deep. He’s doing fine, he thinks, since Dutch’s breaths are becoming more and more irregular and he’s evidently struggling to not move his hips. Micah takes this as a small victory, and the pride goes down into the nasty little cesspool he’s currently accepted as his arousal.

 

If anyone finds them like this he doubts even Dutch can talk his way out of it. It’s a good thought, putting the other in such a position, but he still wants it to be over as quickly as possible. As much as seeing Dutch flustered and trying to deny he’s apparently a filthy faggot and gets off on his underlings sucking his fat cock while his woman lays on his bed unsatisfied would satisfy _him_ , he really doesn’t want to be caught with a fat cock in his mouth under any circumstances.

 

He can tell Dutch is gritting his teeth, breathing noisily through his nose. Even with his eyes closed he can see how focuses the other man looks, sweat beading on his brow, eyes narrowed and hazy. Micah doubts Dutch looks like that whenever he lets Molly suck him off, could never get such a power trip from it, whatever thrill there had been in fucking and corrupting a woman from a respected family long gone. But this? Their leader was crazy for this, and Micah feels powerful, even when his hat gets pushed off his head just to be replaced by Dutch’s hands, even when they pull on it too tightly, even when he holds Micah’s head still and starts fucking into his mouth in earnest.

 

The realisations and the sudden change of pace are making him dizzy, making his cock throb in his pants and he knows he’ll later be getting off to his superiority to Molly O’Shea.

 

He hears murmurs of ‘good boy’ and ‘keep your jaw loose for me, just like that..’ from above, something about doing good and this suiting him. The usual ramblings of a man drunk on the illusion of power and control that having your dick down someone’s throat tends to bring. He’s been there himself, but still thinks Dutch pathetic for it, feels like he has the power even right now. It would be easy to bite down, cause him pain, even push him over and reverse their roles if he wanted to.

 

Micah moans, the sound muffled and pathetic and throaty, but apparently it’s all it takes to send Dutch stumbling through his orgasm. He’s not loud, for once, just gasps and thrusts forward and keeps Micah’s head still with a vice grip while his hips roll erratically. Micah would vomit from the taste and the heat of it if he wasn’t busy trying to rub himself through his jeans before it was over.

 

But just like that it is, and Dutch is pulling out of his mouth and tucking himself back in his pants. Micah falls back in the mud when Dutch lets go of him, still hard and dazed. He wipes at his mouth, tries to catch his breath. Dutch has his back to him already, tucking his shirt in and adjusting his hat.

 

“B..boss..?” He should get something in return, right? “C’mon now…”

 

Dutch doesn’t look at him, and Micah sees he’s managed to light a cigarette at some point between the arguably amazing blowjob and now.

 

“An extra hour on guard duty.” And just like that, Dutch walks off, already calling out to miss Grimshaw for something.

 

He hates it, but he suddenly _understands_ Molly O’Shea.

 

 

 


	2. Lessons learned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Micah’s (im)patience is rewarded

A week.  
  
It's been a week since his little incident with Dutch, and Micah still feels the same as he had when a girl had slapped him with a wet mop at a saloon in his youth. That is to say angry and disgusted, yet inexplicably turned on. He hates it, of course, but the more he tries to _not think about it_ , the more his mind wanders back to it. Just as it does now. He clicks his tongue to get the memory of the weight of Dutch's cock off it and narrows his eyes.

 

"Fuck-"

 

His knife slips and he tries to shake the pain out of his right hand before sucking on the finger he accidentally stabbed. Playing Five Finger Fillet by himself to cool off is not working out as planned. It's good enough to distract him from the usual noises of the camp, which come flooding in again now that's his concentration's broken, but not much more. So he tries to focus on the blood splatter on the table instead. Breathes in, deep and slow. Expects the stench of horse and Person's muddy stew but instead-

 

Musk and sweat and cigar smoke.

 

It's stuck inside him, in his throat and in his airways. There's no getting rid of it. The first time it filled his senses after Dutch had left him sitting in the mud he'd gone and all but stuck his nose in some horse shit just to replace it with something. But it's been _days_ since then and it's still _there_. The first time he'd just been angry, but the second time he'd had to go behind a tree and angrily rub one out, cursing himself and Dutch and his stupid fucking cock. It didn't help that their self-proclaimed leader had been acting as if nothing had happened, casually greeting him when greetings were due and smoking his fat cigars as usual. And Micah has to do it, too, otherwise the bastards will know something's happened, and it'd be a matter of time before one of them sniffs it out. They're all like dogs for that man and his ego and he hates them for it, but he also hates himself for seeing the appeal.

 

He finds himself thinking about it a lot, now, days later - when he's resting with his feet on the table, face hidden under the rim of his hat. Wonders if they've all been there at one point or another, on their knees in the mud with that cock in their mouths. Wonders which ones had choked on it, which ones had done better than him, hadn't let their teeth slip, hadn't glared at him. Wonders if Dutch'd returned the favor -not with his mouth, of course, that'd be unthinkable- but with his hand. Or maybe just let them rut against his leg like actual dogs while he read one of his books. It's impossible to tell which one of them would be best at it, but if he had to guess he'd have to say it was Morgan. Fuckin' Morgan. Surely it hadn't been just the one time between them, either. Not just a play of dominance or whatever the Hell that had been.

 

That particular line of thought sends a pang of something nasty and both unknown and painfully familiar through him. So he doesn’t dwell on it. Or he tries to tell himself he won't.

 

What pulls him out of his thoughts is a stab of pain - he's torn off a piece of skin where he's been absentmindedly biting his thumbnail and now it's bleeding. Good. _That_ , at least, is familiar. He holds on to the feeling, bites into the side of his finger to intensify it. He's staring absent-mindedly at nothing in particular, twirling the knife in his other hand. It's hot and humid and there's sweat beading at his hairline, but he can't be bothered to press down on his hat to soak it up. A part of him hopes it rolls down and gets in his eyes, the salt stinging.

 

"Micah!" He stabs the knife into the table a little too fast to convince himself he's not startled. Not that anybody else would be able to tell the difference between nervousness and agitation in his actions, but his daddy had taught him to always appear confident and in control, so he curses himself anyway.

 

"Yeah, Dutch?" It's the first time they've _spoken_ since what happened and he hates to admit his palms are sweating. He pushes away from the table to wipe the perspiration off. When Micah spins on his heel he almost stumbles backwards, tailbone hitting the edge of the table; Dutch is standing way too close, and when their eyes meet he takes a final step forward, crowding Micah and filling up his senses completely. His breath hitches and he has no time to even berate himself for letting someone sneak up on him like this, because suddenly Dutch is speaking again and that's all Micah has ears for.

 

“You’ve been stuck in camp for too long.” Dutch smiles and Micah swallows. Sweat slides down his neck and he fights the urge to wipe at it. Why is he threatening him? _Is_ he threatening him? The hand that squeezes his forearm a little too forcefully is answer enough to that. The eyes on them are preventing anything more from happening

 

_more what, you idiot_

 

but his fingers dig into the splintering wood anyway. Because he knows what comes with a public threat- “How about we take a walk, figure out something for you to do.” Micah swallows thickly, tastes a few days’ worth of thick spit and gunk from his mouth, licks his teeth. A ghost of his father’s hand sneaks around the back of his neck, squeezes with fake encouragement.

 

“Sure, Dutch.”

 

He hates the words the moment they’ve passed his lips. It’s something Morgan says, that little surrender to whatever their leader has planned, an admission that your opinion and needs and desires matter less than Dutch van der Linde’s. Micah wants to throttle him. Yet, he shrugs and follows obediently, looking at his feet. Dutch pats him on the shoulder, pushes him forward a little too forcefully, which makes Micah stumble.

 

“I’m surprised you ain’t out looking for a lead, what with how _eager_ you always are!” That tone is familiar, from when and where he’s not entirely sure, but it makes Micah hook his thumbs in his gunbelt to avoid fidgeting with his fingers. He eases his anxiety by picking at the small wound he’d opened earlier instead, forcing himself to look at Dutch.  He takes in his confident gait and suddenly realizes he’s struggling to keep up. It makes his ears burn and he quickens his pace.

 

“Well, gotta …gotta not get the locals too suspicious, y’know?” He cringes at his own pathetic excuse. Still, it’s better than ‘I been stickin’ around in hopes of sucking your dick again, boss’.

 

Dutch catches his gaze then, all seriousness and that deep, rather out of place parental concern. Micah can’t look away for the life of him.

 

“Is everything alright, son?” The question catches him off-guard just as they pass Bill’s post at the edge of camp. He nods at them and Micah hurries to reply.

 

“‘Fcourse, Dutch, ain’t nothing ever wrong with me.” Last thing he needs is _this_ dumb prick thinking he has _feelings_. He expects the typical smile their leader gives any of them when he’s satisfied with their answer, but all he gets is a squeeze in the shoulder and a murmured ‘Good.’ That sits wrong with him (definitely not because he’s disappointed) and intensifies the feeling of dread coiling in his stomach. But there’s excitement there this time, too, and he barely manages to hold back the disgust from his face.

 

They’re way out of earshot by the time either of them speaks again. It’s less humid here, away from the lake and the trees that soak up all the perspiration. The grass is almost too tall to see the remains of buildings that poke out of the ground few feet and Micah’s sure he would’ve tripped had he not been intently staring at the ground as they walked. Dutch’s hand had slipped off his shoulder mere moments after they’d vanished in the trees, though the searing heat of it lingers still.

 

“So, uh, where are we goin’?” He finally breaks and asks once they’re halfway through the clearing. Dutch takes a few more steps and comes to a halt near a crumpled, mossy wall.

 

“Here.” He gestures at it with a short sweep of his arm. Micah shuffles over and leans against the mossy stones, elbow propped on the top of them.

 

“And what’s _here_? ‘Sides us fools, that is.” Dutch’s eyes narrow, but his expression remains calm. He’s just a bit taller than Micah, but he might as well have been a giant with the way he tilts his chin up ever so slightly and looks _down_. If he expects Micah to squirm, the joke’s on him - few things make him feel small nowadays, and the haughty gaze of a man with an ego is definitely not one of them. Too many of those had crossed his path before, and most of them he’d left dead and bloody in the dirt where they’d met.

 

“Why, to talk about your increasing lack of contribution to our little family.” Micah snorts. So that’s how it’s going to be.

 

It’s a new game, one he’s never played before. But, as far as giving megalomaniacs what they want, he’s been trained since birth. So he makes a show of shrugging, flicking his hat up with his index finger. His stomach’s in a knot and he’s grateful he hadn’t had any of the disgusting slob these people called ‘soup’ back at camp. Dutch is watching him like a hawk, ready to go off the moment his prey makes a wrong move.

 

Micah doesn’t make wrong moves.

 

Well, he _hadn’t_ , until he’d fallen in with this particular man and his ‘little family’.

 

He pushes himself away from the wall and steps closer to the other man. It’s hard to keep himself from looking around - this place is way too open, the road too nearby, not to mention most people came and went from camp by passing this very clearing. He swallows, adjusts his neckerchief, wishes he wasn’t wearing it. Then he sinks to his knees.

 

His eyes fall on the straining fabric at the front of Dutch’s pants. _Oh_. He’s excitedabout this. Maybe he’s even been thinking about it. Micah sits back on his heels, a little too lost in his own self-satisfied thoughts to catch the tug at the corner of his lips.

 

“And what’s that about?” The voice falls over him like sudden cold rain after a crack of thunder. Again, his mouth is too fast for him as he looks up.

 

“Oh, nothin’. Just happy you been thinkin’ of me.” Dutch closes the distance between them. Micah’s not sure if he hears the word ‘careful’ or if it’s just his senses screaming at him, but it’s too late for caution. “What, lovely miss O’Shea ain’t sucked you ‘s good as I did?”

 

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have counted on the fact that he was safe just because they’d been seen leaving camp together. Nor because Dutch had bothered to put up that concerned act in front of his goons. The knee connecting with his nose sends him falling backwards, barely catching himself on his arms on time. He tastes blood through the dull ringing in his head and grits his teeth. It’s been a while since his nose was last busted, but the pain’s a familiar one all the same. He touches it carefully and it’s not _quite_ broken, but there’s blood pouring out of it like someone turned on a tap.

 

Before he can do much else, Dutch grabs the hanging ends of his neckerchief and pulls him back to his knees, keeping the fabric taut around his neck. It obstructs his breathing and Micah coughs, the lack of oxygen not helping his dizziness. He only realizes that their faces are no more than an inch apart when he feels Dutch’s breath on his skin.

 

“Watch. Your damn. Mouth.”

 

He shoves him back and stands up again, leaving Micah to wheeze and choke on his own spit and blood.

 

“Now get to work.” 

 

Taking Dutch’s cock out is easier this time, feels almost familiar and comfortable in his hand. It’s awful. Micah spits in his hand and gives it a slow stroke. A quiet, relieved sigh trickles down from above. He licks his lips, wipes at his face with his sleeve to soak up some of the blood still dripping from his nose and soaking his mustache. The crack at the corner of his lips had almost healed from last time, but when he opens that wide again it splits anew. Micah wants to click his tongue at the annoying stinging, but only manages a small, displeased sound at the back of his throat, which sends a fresh spray of blood droplets out his left nostril. His hat must’ve fallen off when he’d stumbled backwards, because suddenly there’s a ringed hand in his hair, forcing him closer.

 

He knows the drill, now. So he relaxes his jaw and lets Dutch do his thing, fucking his mouth in slow, deliberate strokes. It makes him gag - the taste and the feeling of the cock moving in his mouth like he’s a woman. But if his daddy isn’t rolling in his grave already, he’s about to start. The dull ache in his face and the back of his head combined with the summer heat and that smell he’s been thinking about almost constantly for the past week are ruining him. Because, while he’s sure _someone_ in camp is always willing to suck mister van der Linde’s dick at any point, nobody had even suggested to do it for him. And he hasn’t had any time to indulge in that sort of thing since before he’d been caught in Strawberry. He’d also been mortified to find out that no amount of bitter, angry masturbating had been satisfying since last week’s events.

 

Because of all that, his traitorous cock is hard and straining against the rough fabric of his pants. He moans, tries to fuck it somehow, needs to get some friction before he bites Dutch’s dick off. When he chances a glance upwards, the man in question has his eyes closed, the occasional small grunt sounding from his throat, making his nostrils flare. The pace is still slow and deep and Micah hums as he cautiously takes one hand off of Dutch’s thighs and undoes the button of his pants. It’s dry and rough when he palms himself but that’s fine by him. The way Dutch is tugging on his hair is adding to the pain from his nose, and he focuses on that and on the instinctive panic that runs up his spine every time the cock in his mouth slides deeper and he can’t inhale.

 

He hears hoofbeats in the distance and briefly wonders if he’s obscured by the wall or if anyone riding down the road could see them if they looked. He prefers to think they’re hidden, even if he knows it’s not true.

 

His eyes close on their own when he starts stroking himself, squeezing his shaft and fingering the tip. His hips rock forward into his fist and he can’t help moaning. Dutch’s grip tightens and he holds him pressed against his pelvis, trying to swallow around his cock and staining his nice, black pants with blood. It smells good, thick and musky and heavy like everything else about him, and Micah tries to get even closer even as he feels his teeth graze over the sensitive flesh in his mouth.

 

“Enjoying yourself, mr.Bell?”

 

He tries pulling back, but the hand in his hair keeps him still. He sniffles, looks up, eyes narrowed in his best attempt at a scowl. It’s a good one, he thinks, considering the circumstances. His cheeks flush when he realizes what a sight he must make, on his knees and desperately clutching his own cock while sucking another. Micah’s expectation of getting away with just some mockery is again proven wrong. Dutch kicks his hand away, wipes his boot on Micah’s thigh, leaving a side, dirty stain on it. Something flickers in his eyes, makes his lower eyelids twitch, as he presses his foot down on Micah’s cock. It’s light, more teasing than a real threat, but it makes Micah gasp - or attempt to - regardless. He struggles to get free but Dutch shushes him.

 

“You should have said something, Micah. But, well,” he tilts his head to the side, still smiling. “I suppose you couldn’t.” There’s a slight hitch to his voice, but Micah has no time to gloat. The foot presses down and he groans, squeezing his eyes shut again. His hands grab on to Dutch’s strong thighs again he feels the muscles tighten under his grip. He’s thrusting again, and Micah’s trying to at least seem like he’s not grinding up against the coarse sole pinning him down. There’s spit and precome and bits of his blood leaking from the side of his mouth, but none of that’s as bad as the sting of tears prickling in his eyes, or the blush he feels spreading down his chest.

 

He’s not sure if he can come like this, dizzy and in pain and being used, but it’s definitely a step up from last time. He tries to focus on the good aspects of the situation, like…well. He tries to focus on his shyly building orgasm. But it’s hard to focus on anything when Dutch starts moving and breathing faster, fingers tightening and loosening their grip on Micah’s hair like an irregular pulse. He braces himself for gagging once the other man comes down his throat.

 

Instead, however, Dutch pulls his head back suddenly, freeing his cock and twisting Micah’s neck at an uncomfortable angle. Their eyes meet and he looks dazed, no hint of his brown irises, just his dilated pupils swallowing Micah up. His mouth is still hanging open and he’s panting like a dog when Dutch strokes himself to completion on his face. It takes just a few, quick movements of his hand and a twist of his wrist Micah stows away for he doesn’t want to think what occasion. Then first stream hits him on the cheek, the next catches him in the nose, while the final two land on his tongue. He looks up, defiant, but makes short work of swallowing when he’s met with an unyielding stare.

 

Dutch squats after buttoning his pants and running his clean hand through his own hair to put it back in place. He runs a ringed thumb through his come on Micah’s cheek and drags it over to where the blood has started crusting. He rubs it until he’s satisfied with the pink mixture he’s created, then drags his thumb down over Micah’s lips. It’s an order, he knows, to open his mouth, so he does. The digit presses down on his tongue, saliva bubbling up from under it and making him want to swallow. He fights it even when Dutch hooks his thumb behind his teeth and tugs downwards. Eager to not get facefucked again, he lets his eyelids droop halfway and closes his lips, sucking the other man’s thumb clean. His tongue runs over the heavy ring and he groans as Dutch’s breath hitches. He grabs the man’s wrist with one hand, keeping it steady so he can lick his way to his index and middle finger, suck on them and run his tongue between them.

 

 The way he’s looking at him one would think Dutch has something more planned. Micah hopes that he does, but just in case he reaches down with one hand to grab his still leaking cock. It’s swatted carelessly away before it gets there, and that’s what makes Dutch wipe the saliva off on Micah’s shirt, staining it, too. He gets up slowly and looks down at the other man.

 

“Don’t get _cocky_ , Micah. And do go find us a lead to follow.” Dutch waves him a dismissive goodbye, adjusts his right spur and walks off towards camps.

 

Once again, he hates this, hates himself, and hates Dutch. But a part of him - the part he hates the most, knows he’s definitely going to go along with this no matter how many times Dutch asks.

 

Just like the rest of his dogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this turned into something longer that may or may not contain feelings, so tread with caution


End file.
